


Taken By The Collar

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [22]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Captivity, Gen, Porthos' terrible horrible no-good very-bad day, Unsatisfactory Conversations, secrets and lies, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6255052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Porthos growled. “Are you working for the Spanish?” he rasped.</em> </p><p> <em>Aramis’ black eyes opened wide. “What an odd question.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken By The Collar

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Handwaved geography. Porthos has a mild potty mouth. References to mistreatment in captivity consistent with show canon. Relationship issues - not sure if there's a better way to put it, certainly not without spoilers. Um, Aramis isn't very nice in this?

Porthos had been crouching in the dark too long.

He shifted awkwardly, trying to ease the strain in his legs as he held himself against the wall, chained too high to sit, too low to stand.

It was too long in the dark, and he'd never been good at waiting. A man of action, was Porthos, always doing, not packed away like a bit of awkward business, to be picked up when convenient. And who did that, anyway? Who kept rings in the wall for chaining prisoners in their private office, along with a fancy rug and a big wooden desk? Spymaster Vargas, apparently. Jesus wept.

Porthos recalled the mess he'd seen of Rochefort’s shoulder. That bastard had been unhinged before he was taken by the Spanish, Porthos reminded himself of that. But maybe that was what kept the son of a sow from… he yanked himself forcibly away from that thought. Lucie de Foix, he made himself think of Lucie and the last parcel from the mademoiselle: two bars of best saddle soap, woollen stockings, fruit preserves to share among the men, and a little book of flower paintings she had found, tiny, useless, and lovely. He'd promised to squire her around the Luxembourg gardens in a brotherly fashion when he next got back to Paris. Lucie... would understand him being late.

Dark as it was, Porthos kept his eyes open. Every time he shut them he dreamed of the sea.

The grate of an opening door, and a man in the garb of a Spanish soldier walked into the dark room. He moved calmly to the desk, striking a light with flint and steel, and set his hand to one of the drawers. Porthos blinked hard, half-blinded by even a little light, then hissed when he saw the man's profile. Aramis.

At the noise Aramis turned to see Porthos squatting against the wall and recoiled in exaggerated surprise.  “Surely it is the devil's luck,” said Aramis, with a crooked smile. He clucked his tongue reproachfully: “Bound and beaten, I see. Oh dear.”

Porthos growled. “Are you working for the Spanish?” he rasped.

Aramis’ black eyes opened wide. “What an odd question,” he answered. He picked up his candle holder and came closer. He set it on the floor when he saw the trickle of blood still warm and wet on Porthos’ forehead, and his fingers probed the sore patches on Porthos‘ skull, cool, gentle, and impersonal. He smelled the same, of gunpowder, clean sweat, and spice. “Do you know the day?” he asked, peering into Porthos‘ eyes. “The date? Do you know who you are? Where are we, can you tell me?”

“‘M fine,” muttered Porthos irritably. “Gotta hard head, me.”

Aramis eyed him quizzically for a moment, then said, “If you will excuse me for but a moment?” and turned away, leaving Porthos in his chains.

He stood still a moment, head bowed, with his fingers buried in his hair. Regret? Headache? A brief moment of penitence? When he raised his head there was a glint of metal in one hand, and he set surely to the drawer. A lock pick, then.

A discreet click, the drawer slid smoothly open, and he lifted out square black ledgers, paging through them swiftly and copying the occasional entry into a notebook. Whatever it was, he knew what he was looking for and soon had the books put away. He took care to stack them how he had found them, Porthos noted, neat as a cat.

“Did you get what you came for?” Porthos asked roughly.   

Aramis shrugged and smiled. “It doesn't matter,” he answered, “My window is closing.” Whatever that meant. “Now up, up, up, big man, for I cannot carry you.” And he released the upper chain.

Porthos surged upwards and seized Aramis by the collar. Again he asked, “Are you working for the Spanish?”

Aramis did not move, not tense under Porthos‘ hands but not limp either. “Do you really want to be here when the Wolf comes back?”

By ‘Wolf’ he meant Vargas. Probably. And no, Porthos didn't. But his grip still tightened.

There was a laugh Aramis used to unpack some days, a quick falling note, _heu,_ like the cry of a bird. Porthos had hated it when he first met the man, feeling mocked and judged by a perfumed libertine who was yet an old hand in the elite regiment in which he tried to find a place. It was just Aramis’ way, he'd learned in time, the mockery aimed at himself as much as anyone, with a delight in a world gone daft. Porthos had missed it desperately on the field of Les Avins, facing down the brass mouths of cannon in howling sleet with a borrowed, unsound horse twitching underneath him. Then he'd rallied the damn line and led the charge because he was a soldier, whatever his goddamned friend had gone off to do. He was swinging back to hating it, as Aramis used it on him now.

“ _Heu,_ ” he laughed, mocking. “Three questions, then, if you ask them as we move.”

Porthos let go and allowed himself to be chivvied through an obscured door, into a long narrow passage sporadically lit by chinks in the wall. Despite his earlier harsh words Aramis’ hand on his arm was firm and steadying when Porthos swayed involuntarily, betrayed by his stiffened limbs.

“Why...” _Why did you run from us?_ “Why are you here?”

“I am picking up a few odds and ends,” Aramis answered. “And you, apparently.”

They turned a corner and lost their light; Porthos heard the other’s hand sliding against the wall, feeling his way in the dark.

“How did you come to enjoy Spymaster Vargas’ delicate hospitality?”

“Since when was I answerin’?”

“ _Pff,_ it was implied. Your road to this place?”

“I got cut off behind enemy lines,” said Porthos, “We were outnumbered, simple as that.” His shoulders shook with remembered anger: he hated losing a fight. “Most of the squad I was with got sent off for parole and ransom. But I gotta distinctive face.”

“That you do.”

“And Vargas gotta grudge.”

“Hm.”

“What...” _What have we done to you that you treat me like a stranger?_ “What were you up to in Venice?”

“I visited the Doge’s wife,” said Aramis from the darkness. “We drank chocolate with ambergris: it was delicious.”

“The Doge don’t have a wife.”

“ _Heu,_ as good as.”

“You weren't there for just a... social call.”

In the darkness Aramis asked, “Is that a question?”

“No.” He couldn’t have been there for a roll in the sheets, however fancy the Doge’s favourite mistress, not with a gun like he'd been carrying. Porthos remembered seeing it in Aramis’ hand, silhouetted against the sky, with a barrel too long and cumbersome for combat. It might have been graved with spirals inside, to make the balls fly even truer, he'd heard of that being done sometimes - on the weapons assassins used. His stomach churned.

“The rest of the squad you were captured with...” it wasn't exactly a question, but Porthos answered.

“Died of their wounds. I ain't no medic.” _Laugh that one off._

There was silence, then Aramis said, “I am sorry.”

Porthos grunted, then changed the subject.

“Are you...” _Are you remembering to eat? Sleeping alright? Who's watching your back, you feckless fool?_ “Are you with someone?”

He heard the smile in Aramis’ voice. “Yes. A lady in the miracle business, you might say.”

“You’re working for a nun,” said Porthos in disbelief.

“Time's up,” said Aramis. They had reached the end of the corridor. Through the thickness of the door penetrated the sounds of a roaring gathering of men. In the little light coming through the chinks, Porthos saw him stand a moment, brows creased in thought, with his palm against the door.

“Courage,” he said, and shoved Porthos through it.

Porthos stumbled into a courtyard packed with soldiers, his eyes squinted shut against the sudden daylight. The irons were heavy on his wrists as the yard fell silent. Behind him Aramis called something rapid in Spanish, too fast for Porthos to follow, but jeering in tone. The soldiers erupted into conversation and cheers, and their hands buffeted him. Porthos thought of breaking a few necks with his chains - they'd pull him down eventually, but he could dye the courtyard red first. His muscles spasmed holding himself in.

Aramis was laughing, laughing at him.

This wasn't something he was going to forget.

Aramis cuffed him, snarled, then hauled on his arm. Porthos set his feet. Blows rained down on his shoulders. The rage boiled in his belly, a sea of fire, and he flexed at his chains. Aramis leaned into him, in a parody of intimacy. “Move,” he breathed into Porthos’ ear, “ _Move or die_.” Porthos stumbled forward.

And they were through, with a door slammed behind them and twisting stairs to climb.

Porthos sucked in air when they reached the top, shaking. Aramis said nothing, looking out over the green river that ran this side of the fortress wall.

It was the longest he'd been in Aramis’ company since, hell, near a year now, when he and d'Artagnan had found him, by chance, in the camp of a Spanish raiding party. They'd thrown him, limp as a scullery rag, onto a stolen horse and gotten out of the no-man's-land as fast as they could. If Aramis hadn't disappeared in the night, would it have been like this? His old friend so ruthless, wary, and mocking? Had… had Aramis _always_ been this way, and Porthos just hadn't seen, eyes covered in the scales of camaraderie and familiarity? It made his stomach hurt.

The light was nearing sunset, oddly beautiful over the dry terrain. It was always so, Porthos knew, just as food tasted better when he'd starved for days. Well and so, whatever Aramis had become, or was, Porthos would deal with it. He drew breath to speak, but Aramis got there first.

“Those boats you see, at that little dock,” he said, pointing, his voice light and idle, “all but the leftmost has a slow leak in the hull.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Aramis cocked his head, looked at him sharply, then said, “What…” He shook himself and started again. “What does ‘San Sebastian’ mean to you?”

Porthos blinked. “That a church somewhere? A fortress?”

“Hm,” he said, eyes thoughtful.  A breeze struck up behind him and ruffled his hair. It was cold against Porthos’ sweat.

“Two more things,” said Aramis, tossing the kind of key that could open shackles. “Don't lose this.” Porthos caught it awkwardly. “And thank you for the distraction,” he added, shoving Porthos off the wall.

The river water caught Porthos like a blow. He clutched the key, kicked hard, and got his head out of the water, spluttering and swearing.

“He's getting away!” he heard Aramis cry from above. _Godammit, Aramis._

He swam for the boats.

**Author's Note:**

> he made himself think of Lucie - somewhere in the back of my head is the story of Porthos asking Lucie if he's her nephew, her having no idea, and the two of them, rather short on family, semi-adopting each other. Until it gets written, we're stuck with little references like this.
> 
> It might have been graved with spirals inside, to make the balls fly even truer - no rifles in common use at this point, though the technology to rifle a barrel existed. It was the poor quality of the powder, which fouled a rifled gun after only one or two shots and threw out lots of smoke to kill visibility. Muskets tended to be used en masse on the battlefield. On the other hand, a marksman with a specialised gun and a place to set it up…
> 
> There is a reason Aramis is such an arse in this, I swear. (I was actually getting a bit upset rereading it for the last edit.) Um, sorry. I promise things will get better.


End file.
